LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 

S  i 


(MRS.  LIONEL  MARKS) 


THE  SINGING   MAN. 
THE  PIPER. 

THE  BOOK  OF  THE  LITTLE  PAST.     Illus 
trated  in  color. 
THE  SINGING   LEAVES. 
MARLOWE  :   A  DRAMA. 
FORTUNE  AND   MEN'S   EYES. 
OLD  GREEK  FOLK  STORIES. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  SINGING  MAN 


The  Singing  Man 

A  Book  of  Songs  and 
Shadows  s«^^«s«^ 


By  JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY 


BOSTON  and  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON   MlFFLIN  COMPANY 


1911 


COPYRIGHT,    I9II,    BY  JOSEPHINE   PEABODY   MARKS 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  November  jqix 


NOTE 

Thanks  are  especially  due  to  the  editors  of  The 
American  Magazine,  Scribner's,  The  Atlantic 
Monthly,  and  to  Messrs.  Harper  and  Brothers, 
for  their  courteous  permission  to  reprint  certain 
of  the  poems  included  in  this  volume. 


225950 


FOREWORD 

We  make  our  songs  as  we  must,  from  frag 
ments  of  the  joy  and  sorrow  of  living.  What 
Life  itself  may  be,  we  cannot  know  till  all  men 
share  the  chance  to  know. 

Until  the  day  of  some  more  equal  portion, 
there  is  no  human  brightness  unhaunted  by  this 
black  shadow  :  the  thought  of  those  unnumbered 
who  pay  all  the  heavier  cost  of  life,  to  live  and 
die  without  knowledge  that  there  is  any  Joy  of 
Living. 

No  song  could  face  such  blackness,  but  for 
the  will  to  share,  and  for  hope  of  the  day  of 
sharing. 

Upon  that  hope  and  that  mindfulness,  the 
poems  in  this  book  are  linked  together. 

J.  P.  M. 

4  October,  191 1. 


CONTENTS 

THE  SINGING  MAN 3 

THE  TREES 15 

O,  do  you  remember  ?  How  it  came  to  be?    .     .        .  21 

RICH  MAN,  POOR  MAN 23 

But  we  did  walk  in  Eden  .        .        .        ...  29 

THE  FOUNDLING      .       .       .  .       .       .31 

Love  sang  to  me.   And  I  went  down  the  stair     .        .  35 

THE  FEASTER    .       .       ......  37 

Beloved,  if  the  moon  could  weep         .        .        .        .  43 

THE  GOLDEN  SHOES 45 

NOON  AT  PJESTUM 47 

VESTAL  FLAME 48 

The  dark  had  left  no  speech  save  hand-in-hand     .  5 1 

THE  PROPHET 53 

THE  LONG  LANE 56 

Ah  but,  Beloved,  men  may  do 59 


x  CONTENTS 

ALISON'S  MOTHER  TO  THE  BROOK        .       .       .61 

You,  Four  Walls  ^  wall  not  in  my  heart !         .        .65 

CANTICLE  OF  THE  BABE 67 

And  thouy  Wayfaring  Woman  whom  I  meet    .       .73 

GLADNESS ^ 

THE  NIGHTINGALE  UNHEARD       .       .       .       .81 
Envoi 87 


THE    SINGING   MAN 
AN  ODE  OF  THE  PORTION  OF  LABOR 


4  The  profit  of  the  Earth  is  for  all' 

ECCLESIASTES. 


THE    SINGING    MAN 

I 

HE  sang  above  the  vineyards  of  the  world. 
And  after  him  the  vines  with  woven 
hands 
Clambered  and  clung,  and  everywhere  unfurled 

Triumphing  green  above  the  barren  lands  ; 
Till  high  as  gardens  grow,  he  climbed,  he  stood, 
Sun-crowned  with  life  and  strength,  and  sing 
ing  toil, 

And  looked  upon  his  work ;  and  it  was  good : 
The  corn,  the  wine,  the  oil. 

He  sang  above  the  noon.  The  topmost  cleft 
That  grudged  him  footing  on  the  mountain 

scars 
He  planted  and  despaired  not ;  till  he  left 

His  vines  soft  breathing  to  the  host  of  stars. 
He  wrought,  he  tilled ;  and  even  as  he  sang, 

The  creatures  of  his  planting  laughed  to  scorn 
The  ancient  threat  of  deserts  where  there  sprang 
The  wine,  the  oil,  the  corn! 


4: '  •     THE    SINGING. MAN 

•     , 

He  sang  not  for  abundance.  —  Over-lords 

Took  of  his  tilth.  Yet  was  there  still  to  reap, 
The  portion  of  his  labor;  dear  rewards 

Of  sunlit  day,  and  bread,  and  human  sleep. 
He  sang  for  strength ;  for  glory  of  the  light. 
He  dreamed  above  the  furrows,  cThey  are 

mine  ! ' 

When  all  he  wrought  stood  fair  before  his  sight 
With  corn,  and  oil,  and  wine. 

'Truly,  the  light  is  sweet 
Tea,  and  a  pleasant  thing 

It  is  to  see  the  Sun. 
And  that  a  man  should  eat 

His  bread  that  he  hath  won  ;  — 
(So  is  it  sung  and  said), 

That  he  should  take  and  keep, 

After  his  laboring, 
The  portion  of  his  labor  in  his  bread, 
His  bread  that  he  hath  won  ; 
Tea,  and  in  quiet  sleep, 
When  all  is  done. 

He  sang;  above  the  burden  and  the  heat, 
Above  all  seasons  with  their  fitful  grace ; 

Above  the  chance  and  change  that  led  his  feet 
To  this  last  ambush  of  the  Market-place. 


, 


THE    SINGING    MAN       5 

Enough  for  him,'  they  said  —  and   still  they 

say  — 
CA  crust,   with  air  to   breathe,  and   sun  to 

shine  ; 

He  asks  no  more  !  '  —  Before  they  took  away 
The  corn,  the  oil,  the  wine. 

***4U^4 

He  sang.  No  more  he  sings  now,  anywhere. 
Light  was  enough,  before  he  was  undone. 
They  knew  it  well,  who  took  away  the  air, 

—  Who  took  away  the  sun  ; 
Who  took,  to  serve  their  soul-devouring  greed, 
Himself,  his  breath,  his  bread  —  the  goad  of 

toil  ;  — 

Who  have  and  hold,  before  the  eyes  of  Need, 
The  corn,  the  wine,  —  the  oil  ! 


Truly  ,  one  thing  is  sweet 
Of  things  beneath  the  Sun  ; 
s,  that  a  man  should  earn  his  bread  and  eat, 
Rejoicing  in  his  work  which  he  hath  done. 
What  shall  be  sung  or  said 

Of  desolate  deceit  L, 
When  others  take  his  bread  ; 
His  and  his  children  s  bread  ?  — 
And  the  laborer  hath  none. 


6       THE    SINGING    MAN 

This,  for  bis  portion  now,  of  all  that  he  hath  done. 

He  earns ;  and  others  eat. 
He  starves ;  —  they  sit  at  meat 
Who  have  taken  away  the  Sun. 


II 


Seek  him  now,  that  singing  Man. 
Look  for  him, 
Look  for  him 
In  the  mills, 
In  the  mines  ; 

Where  the  very  daylight  pines, — 
He,  who  once  did  walk  the  hills ! 
You  shall  find  him,  if  you  scan 
Shapes  all  unbefitting  Man, 
Bodies  warped,  and  faces  dim. 
In  the  mines  ;  in  the  mills 
Where  the  ceaseless  thunder  fills 
Spaces  of  the  human  brain 
Till  all  thought  is  turned  to  pain. 
Where  the  skirl  of  wheel  on  wheel, 
Grinding  him  who  is  their  tool, 
Makes  the  shattered  senses  reel 
To  the  numbness  of  the  fool. 
Perisht  thought,  and  halting  tongue 


THE    SINGING    MAN       7 

(Once  it  spoke  ;  —  once  it  sung  !) 
Live  to  hunger,  dead  to  song. 
Only  heart-beats  loud  with  wrong 
Hammer  on,  —  How  long? 
.  .  .  How  long  ?  —  How  long  ? 

Search  for  him; 

Search  for  him ; 

Where  the  crazy  atoms  swim 

Up  the  fiery  furnace-blast. 

You  shall  find  him,  at  the  last, — 

He  whose  forehead  braved  the  sun,  — 

Wreckt  and  tortured  and  undone. 

Where  no  breath  across  the  heat 

Whispers  him  that  life  was  sweet ; 

But  the  sparkles  mock  and  flare, 

Scattering  up  the  crooked  air. 

(Blackened  with  that  bitter  mirk,  — 

Would  God  know  His  handiwork  ?) 

Thought  is  not  for  such  as  he ; 
Naught  but  strength,  and  misery ; 
Since,  for  just  the  bite  and  sup, 
Life  must  needs  be  swallowed  up. 
Only,  reeling  up  the  sky, 
Hurtling  flames  that  hurry  by, 


8        THE    SINGING    MAN 

Gasp  and  flare,  with  Why  —  Whyy 
.  .  .  Why?   .  .  . 

f  Why  the  human  mind  of  him 
Shrinks,  and  falters  and  is  dim 
When  he  tries  to  make  it  out : 
What  the  torture  is  about.  — 
Why  he  breathes,  a  fugitive' 
Whom  the  World  forbids  to  live. 
Why  he  earned  for  his  abode, 
Habitation  of  the  toad  ! 
Why  his  fevered  day  by  day 
Will  not  serve  to  drive  away 
Horror  that  must  always  haunt :  — 
.  .  .  Want  .  .  .  Want  I 
Nightmare  shot  with  waking  pangs  ;  — 
Tightening  coil,  and  certain  fangs, 
Close  and  closer,  always  nigh  .  .  . 
.  .  .  Why?  .  .  .  Why? 

Why  he  labors  under  ban 
,That  denies  him  for  a  man. 

Why  his  utmost  drop  of  blood 

Buys  for  him  no  human  good  ; 

Why  his  utmost  urge  of  strength 
\Only  lets  Them  starve  at  length  ;  — 


THE    SINGING    MAN 

/    Will  not  let  him  starve  alone; 
(     He  must  watch,  and  see  his  own 
*     Fade  and  fail,  and  starve,  and  die. 

.  .  .  Why?  .  .  .  Why? 

Heart-beats,  in  a  hammering  song, 

Heavy  as  an  ox  may  plod, 

Goaded  —  goaded  —  faint  with  wrong, 

Cry  unto  some  ghost  of  God 

.  .  .  How  long  ?  .  .  .  How  long  ? 

How  long  ? 


Ill 

Seek  him  yet.  Search  for  him  ! 
You  shall  find  him,  spent  and  grim ; 
In  the  prisons,  where  we  pen 
These  unsightly  shards  of  men. 
Sheltered  fast ; 
Housed  at  length; 
Clothed  and  fed,  no  matter  how  !  — 
Where  the  householders,  aghast, 
Measure  in  his  broken  strength 
Nought  but  power  for  evil,  now. 
Beast-of-burden  drudgeries 


io     THE    SINGING    MAN 

Could  not  earn  him  what  was  his : 
He  who  heard  the  world  applaud 
Glories  seized  by  force  and  fraud, 
He  must  break,  —  he  must  take  !  — 
Both  for  hate  and  hunger's  sake. 
He  must  seize  "by "fraud  and  force  ; 
He  must  s^ke,  without  remorse  ! 
Seize  he  might ;  but  never  keep. 
Strike,  his  once  !  —  Behold  him  here. 
(Human  life  we  buy  so  cheap, 
Who  should  know  we  held  it  dear?) 

No  denial,  —  no  defence 

From  a  brain  bereft  of  sense, 

Any  more  than  penitence. 

But  the  heart-beats  now,  that  plod 

Goaded  —  goaded  —  dumb  with  wrong, 

Ask  not  even  a  ghost  of  God 

How  long? 

When  the  Sea  gives  up  its  dead, 
Prison  caverns,  yield  instead 
This,  rejected  and  despised; 
This,  the  Soiled  and  Sacrificed! 
Without  form  or  comeliness ; 
Shamed  for  us  that  did  transgress  ; 


THE    SINGING    MAN     11 

Bruised,  for  our  iniquities, 
With  the  stripes  that  are  all  his  ! 
Face  that  wreckage,  you  who  can. 
It  was  once  the  Singing  Man. 


Must  it  be  ?  —  Must  we  then 

•    "* 

Render  back  to  God  again 
This  His  broken  work,  this  thing, 
For  His  man  that  once  did  sing  ? 
Will  not  all  our  wonders  do  ? 
Gifts  we  stored  the  ages  through, 
(Trusting  that  He  had  forgot)  — 
Gifts  the  Lord  required  not  ? 

• 

Would  the  all-but-human  serve  ! 
Monsters  made  of  stone  and  nerve; 
Towers  to  threaten  and  defy 
Curse  or  blessing  of  the  sky  ; 
Shafts  that  blot  the  stars  with  smoke ; 
Lightnings  harnessed  under  yoke;    £jU&* 
Sea-things,  air-things,  wrought  with  steel, 
That  may  smite,  and  fly,  and  feel ! 
Oceans  calling  each  to  each  ; 
Hostile  hearts,  with  kindred  speech. 


12     THE    SINGING    MAN 

Every  work  that  Titans  can ; 
Every  marvel  :  save  a  man, 
Who  might  rule  without  a  sword.  — 
Is  a  man  more  precious,  Lord? 

Can  it  be  ?  —  Must  we  then 
Render  back  to  Thee  again 
Million,  million  wasted  men  ? 
Men,  of  flickering  human  breath, 
Only  made  for  life  and  death? 

Ah,  but  see  the  sovereign  Few, 
Highly  favored,  that  remain  ! 
These,  the  glorious  residue, 
Of  the  cherished  race  of  Cain. 
These,  the  magnates  of  the  age, 
High  above  the  human  wage, 
Who  have  numbered  and  possesst 
All  the  portion  of  the  rest! 

What  are  all  despairs  and  shames, 
What  the  mean,  forgotten  names 
Of  the  thousand  more  or  less, 
For  one  surfeit  of  success  ? 

For  those  dullest  lives  we  spent,  * 
Take  these  Few  magnificent ! 


THE    SINGING    MAN     13 

For  that  host  of  blotted  ones, 
Take  these  glittering  central  suns. 
Few;  —  but  how  their  lustre  thrives 
On  the  million  broken  lives  ! 
Splendid,  over  dark  and  doubt, 
For  a  million  souls  gone  out  ! 
These,  the  holders  of  our  hoard,  — 
Wilt  thou  not  accept  them,  Lord  ? 


Oh,  in  the  wakening  thunders  of  the  heart, 
—  The  small,  lost  Eden,  troubled  through  the 

night, 
Sounds  there  not  now,  —  forboded  and  apart, 

Some  voice  and  sword  of  light  ? 
Some  voice  and  portent  of  a  dawn  to  break  ?  —  • 
Searching  like  God,  the  ruinous  Jiuman  shard 
Of  that  lost  Brother-man  Himself  did  make, 
And  Man  himself  hathTmarred  ? 

V"  <o 

It  sounds!  —  And   may  the  anguish   of  that^ 

birth 

Seize  on  the  world  ;  and  may  all  shelters  fail, 
Till  we  behold  new  Heaven  and  new  Earth 
Through  the  rent  Temple-vail  ! 


14     THE    SINGING    MAN 

When  the  high-tides  that  threaten  near  and  far 
To  sweep  away  our  guilt  before  the  sky,  — 
Flooding  the  waste  of  this  dishonored  Star, 

Cleanse,  and  o'erwhelm,  and  cry  !  — 

Cry,  from  the  deep  of  world-accusing  waves, 
With    longing   more    than    all    since   Light 

began, 

Above  the  nations,  —  underneath  the  graves,  — 
c  Give  back  the  Singing  Man  ! ' 


THE   TREES 


NOW,  in  the  thousandth  year, 
When  April's  near, 
Now  comes  it  that  the  great  ones  of 
the  earth 

Take  all  their  mirth 

Away  with  them,  far  off,  to  orchard-places,  — 
Nor  they  nor  Solomon  arrayed  like  these,  - 
To  sun  themselves  at  ease  ; 
To  breathe  of  wind-swept  spaces  ; 
To  see  some  miracle  of  leafy  graces  ;  — 
To  catch  the  out-flowing  rapture  of  the  trees. 
Considering  the  lilies. 

—  Yes.  And  when 
Shall  they  consider  Men  ? 

(O  showering  May -clad  tree. 
Bear  yet  awhile  with  me.) 


1 6     THE    SINGING    MAN 
II 

For  now  at  last,  they  have  beheld  the  trees. 

Lo,  even  these  !  - 

The  men  of  sounding  laughter  and  low  fears  ; 

The  women  of  light  laughter,  and  no  tears  ; 

The  great  ones  of  the  town. 

And  those,  of  most  renown, 

That  once  sold  doves,  —  now  grown  so  penny- 
wise 

To  bargain  with  forlorner  merchandise,  — 

They  buy  and  sell,  they  buy  and  sell  again, 

The  life-long  toil  of  men. 

Worn  with  their  market  strife  to  dispossess 

The  blind,  —  the  fatherless, 

They  too  go  forth,  to  breathe  of  budding  trees, 

And  woods  with  beckoning  wonders  new  un 
furled. 

Yes,  even  these : 

The  money-changers  and  the  Pharisees  ; 

The  rulers  of  the  darkness  of  this  world. 

(O  choiring  Summer  tree ', 
Bear  yet  awhile  with  me.) 


THETREES  17 


III 


For  now,  behold  their  heart's  desire  is  thrall 

To  simpleness.  —  O  new  delight,  unguessed, 

In  very  rest  ! 

And  precious  beyond  all, 

A  garden-place,  a  garden  with  a  wall! 

To  the  green  earth  !  All  bountiful  to  bless 

Hearts  sickening  with  excess. 

To  the  green  earth,  whose  blithe  replenishments 

Shall  fresh  the  jaded  sense ! 

To  the  green  earth,  the  dust-corrupted  soul 

Returns  to  be  made  whole. 

For  now  it  comes  indeed, 

They  will  go  forth,  all  they,  to  see  a  reed 

So  shaken  by  the  wind. 

Men  are  no  longer  blind 

To  aught,  save  human  kind. 

(O  mellowing  August  tree, 
Bear  yet  awhile  with  me.) 

IV 

The  wonder  this.  For  some  there  are  no  trees ; 
Or  in  the  trees  no  beauty  and  no  mirth:  — 


i8     THE    SINGING    MAN 

Those  dullest  millions,  pent 

In  life-long  banishment 

From  all  the  gifts  and  creatures  of  the  earth, 

Shut  in  the  inner  darkness  of  the  town ; 

Those  blighted  things  you  see, 

But  the  Sun  sees  not,  at  its  going  down :  — 

Warped  outcasts  of  some  human  forestry ; 

Blind  victims  of  the  blind, 

Wreckt  ones  and  dark  of  mind, 

With  the  poor  fruit,  after  their  piteous  kind. 

And  if  you  take  some  Old  One  to  the  fields, 

To  see  what  Nature  yields 

With  fullest  hands  to  men  already  free, 

It  well  may  be, 

As  on  some  indecipherable  book 

The  Guest  will  look, 

With  eyes  too   old,  —  too   old,  too    dim   to 

see ; 

Too  old,  too  old  to  learn ; 
Or  to  discern  — 
Before  it  slips  away, 
The  joy  of  such  a  late  half-holiday! 
Proffer  those  starved  eyes  your  belated  cup : 
They  look  not  up. 
Too  late,  too  late  for  any  sky  to  do 
Brief  kindness  with  its  blue. 


THE    TREES  19 

And  what  behold  they,  then  ? 
In  the  shamed  moment,  when 
Old  eyes  bow  down  again  ? 

Down  in  the  night  and  blackness  of  tbe  heart, 

'The  drowned  things  start. 

And  he  recks  nothing  of  the  meadow  air, 

Because  of  what  is  There. 

Lost  things  of  hope  and  sorrow  without  tongue  : 

Tbe  human  lilies,  sprung 

Out  of  the  ooze,  and  trodden, 

Even  as  they  breathed  and  clung  ! 

Lost  lilies,  bruised  and  sodden  ; 

Lost  faces,  gleaming  there, 

Where  misery  blasphemes  the  sacred  young  ! 

Mute  outcry,  most,  of  those 

Small  suffering  hands  defrauded  of  their  rose  ; 

Faces  the  daylight  shuns  ; 

Ruinous  faces  of  tbe  little  ones, — 

Pale  witness,  unaware. 

Starved  lips,  and  withering  blood — 

O  broken  in  the  bud! — 

Blank  eyes,  and  blighted  hair. 

(O  golden,  golden  tree! 
Bear  yet  awhile  with  me.) 


2o     THE    SINGING    MAN 

So  is  it,  haply,  when 

Dull  eyes  look  up,  and  then 

Dull  eyes  look  down  again. 

Waste  no  vain  holiday  on  such  as  these; 

For  them  there  is  no  joy  in  blossomed  trees. 


For  them  there  is  no  joy  in  blossomed  trees. 

And  with  what  eye-shut  ease 

We  leave  them,  at  the  last,  for  company, 

The  Tree, 

Whose  two  stark  boughs  no  springtime  yet  un 
furled, 

Ever,  since  time  began  ; 

Nor  bloom  so  strange  to  see !  — 

Behold,  the  Man, 

With  His  two  arms  outstretched  to  fold  the 
world. 


O,  do  you  remember  ?  —  How  it  came  to  be  ? 
Far,  golden  windows  gazing  from  the  shore; 
Golden  ebb  of  daylight ;  heart  could  hold  no  more  : 
Beloved  and  Beloved,  and  the  sea. 

Westward  the  sun,  —  low,  slow  and  golden; 

Eastward  the  moon  climbed,  honey -pale. 

O  do  you  remember?  while  our  eyes  were  holden, 

Close,  close  upon  us,  —  the  Golden  Sail? 

Wind-swift  she  came,  —  thing  of  living  flame, 

Sea-hreathing  Glory,  to  make  the  heart  afraid! 

The  ripples,  fold  on  fold 

Of  coiling  gold, 

Trailing  a  thousand  ways 

Her  golden  maze, 

Rocked  in  a  golden  tumult,  every  one, 

The  gondolas,  the  ships  .  . 

Westward  she  made 

A  portent  from  the  sky, — gone  by,  gone  by, 
To  golden,  far  eclipse ;  .  .  . 
Into  the  Sun. 

Behold,  a  mystery 

That  shook  to  golden  throbbing  all  the  sea. 
Oh,  and  what  needed  one  more  wonder  be 
For  thee  and  me,  Beloved  ?  thee  and  me  ? 


RICH   MAN,   POOR    MAN 


'  Rich  man,  Poor  man,  Beggar  man,  Thief  \ 
Doctor,  Lawyer,  Merchant,  Chief.' 


HIGHWAY,  stretched  along  the  sun, 
Highway,  thronged  till  day  is  done ; 
Where  the  drifting  Face  replaces 
Wave  on  wave  on  wave  of  faces, 
And  you  count  them,  one  by  one : 

'Rich  man  —  Poor  man — Bewar  man  — 

oo 

fbirf: 

Doctor — Lawyer —  Merchant —  Chief.9 
Is  it  soothsay  ? —  Is  it  fun  ? 

Young  ones,  like  as  wave  and  wave; 

Old  ones,  like  as  grave  and  grave ; 

Tide  on  tide  of  human  faces 

With  what  human  undertow  ! 

Rich  man,  poor  man,  beggar-man,  thief!  — 

Tell  me  of  the  eddying  spaces, 


24     THE    SINGING    MAN 

Show  me  where  the  lost  ones  go ; 
Like  and  lost,  as  leaf  and  leaf. 
What's  your  secret  grim  refrain 
Back  and  forth  and  back  again, 
Once,  and  now,  and  always  so  ? 
Three  days  since,  and  who  was  Thief? 
Three  days  more,  and  who  '11  be  Chief? 
Oh,  is  that  beyond  belief, 
Doctor,  Lawyer — Merchant-Chief? 

(Down,  like  grass  before  the  mowing; 
On,  like  wind  in  its  mad  going  :  — 
Wind  and  dust  forever  blowing?) 

Highway,  shrill  with  murderous  pride, 
Highway,  of  the  swarming  tide  ! 
Why  should  my  way  lead  me  deeper? 
I  am  not  my  Brother's  keeper. 


II 

Byway,  ambushed  with  the  dark, 
Byway,  where  the  ears  may  hark; 
Live  and  fierce  when  day  is  done, 
You,  that  do  without  the  Sun  :  — 
What 's  this  game  you  bring  to  nought? 


RICH    MAN,    POOR    MAN    25 

Muttering  like  a  thing  distraught, 
Reckoning  like  a  simpleton  ? 
(Since  the  hearing  must  be  brief,  — 
Living  or  a  dying  thief !) 
Cobbled  with  the  anguished  stones 
That  the  thoroughfare  disowns  ; 
Stones  they  gave  you  for  your  bread 
Of  the  disinherited! 
Where  the  Towers  of  Hunger  loom, 
Crowding  in  the  dregs  of  doom  ; 
Where  the  lost  sky  peering  through 
Sees  no  more  the  grudging  grass,  — 
Only  this  mud-mirrored  blue, 
Like  some  shattered  looking-glass. 

(Under,  with  the  sorry  reaping! 
Underneath  the  stones  of  weeping, 
For  the  Dark  to  have  in  keeping.) 

Byway,  you,  so  foully  marred; 

You,  whose  sodden  walls  and  scarred, 

See  no  light,  but  only  where 

Fevered  lamps  are  set  to  stare 

In  the  eyes  of  such  despair! 

Tell  me — as  a  Byway  can  — 

Was  this  Beggar  once  a  Man  ? 


26     THE    SINGING    MAN 

1  Rich  man  —  Poor  man — Beggar  man  —  Thief!  ' 

Like  and  lost  as  leaf  and  leaf. 

Stammering  out  your  wrongs  and  shames, 

Must  you  cry  their  very  names  ? 

Must  you  sob  your  shame,  your  grief? 

— c  Poor  man —  Poor  man  !  —  Beggar —  Thief* 

III 

Highway,  where  the  Sun  is  wide ; 
Byway,  where  the  lost  ones  hide, 
Byway,  where  the  Soul  must  hark, 
Byway,  dreadful  with  the  Dark : 

Can  you  nothing  do  with  Man  ? 
Doctor,  Lawyer,  Merchant,  Chief, 
Learns  he  nothing,  even  of  grief  ? 
Must  it  still  be  all  his  wonder 
Some  men  soar,  while  some  go  under? 
He  has  heard,  and  he  has  seen : 
Make  him  know  the  thing  you  mean. 
He  has  prayed  since  time  began, — 
He  's  so  curious  of  the  Plan  ! 
He  will  pray  you  till  he  die, 
For  the  Whence  and  for  the  Why  ; 
Mad  for  wisdom  —  when  'tis  cheaper! 


RICH    MAN,    POOR    MAN     27 

'  Why  should  my  way  lead  me  deeper  ? 
Am  I,  then,  my  Brother  s  keeper  ? ' 

Show  him,  Byway,  if  you  can  ; 

Lest  he  end  as  he  began, 

Rich  and  poor,  —  this  beggar,  Man. 


But  we  did  walk  in  Eden, 

Eden,  the  garden  of  God ;  — 
There,  where  no  beckoning  wonder 
Of  all  the  paths  we  trod, 
No  choiring  sun-filled  vineyard, 
No  voice  of  stream  or  bird, 
But  was  some  radiant  oracle 
And  flaming  with  the  Word! 

Mine  ears  are  dim  with  voices ; 

Mine  eyes  yet  strive  to  see 

The  black  things  here  to  wonder  aty 

The  mirth,  —  the  misery. 

Beloved,  who  wert  with  me  there, 
How  came  these  shames  to  be?  — 
On  what  lost  star  are  we? 

Men  say  :  The  paths  of  gladness 
By  men  were  never  trod!  — 

But  we  have  walked  in  Eden,^ 
Eden,  the  garden  of  God. 
+9 


THE    FOUNDLING 

BEAUTIFUL  Mother,  I  have  toiled  all 
day; 

And  I  am  wearied.  And  the  day  is  done. 
Now,  while  the  wild  brooks  run 
Soft  by  the  furrows  —  fading,  gold  to  gray, 
Their  laughters  turned  to  musing  —  ah,  let  me 
Hide  here  my  face  at  thine  unheeding  knee, 
Beautiful  Mother;  if  I  be  thy  son. 

The  birds  fly  low.  Gulls,  starlings,  hoverers, 
Along  the  meadows  and  the  paling  foam, 
All  wings  of  thine  that  roam 
Fly  down,  fly  down.  One  reedy  murmur  blurs 
The  silence  of  the  earth  ;  and  from  the  warm 
Face  of  the  field  the  upward  savors  swarm 
Into  the  darkness.  And  the  herds  are  home. 

All  they  are  stalled  and  folded  for  their  rest, 
The    creatures :    cloud-fleece   young   that 

leap  and  veer ; 
Mad-mane  and  gentle  ear ; 

And  breath  of  loving-kindness.  And  that  best, — 


32     THE    SINGING    MAN 

O  shaggy  house-mate,  watching  me  from  far, 
With  human-aching  heart,  as  I  a  star  — 
Tempest  of  plumed  joys,  just  to  be  near  ! 

So  close,  so  like,  so  dear ;  and  whom  I  love 
More  than  thou  lovest  them,  orlovestme. 
So  beautiful  to  see, 

Ah,  and  to  touch  !  When  those  far  lights  above 
Scorch  me  with  farness — lights  that  call  and 

call 

To  the  far  heart,  and  answer  not  at  all ; 
Save  that  they  will  not  let  the  darkness  be. 

And  what  am  I  ?  That  I  alone  of  these 

Make   me    most   glad   at  noon  ?  That  I 

should  mark 
The  after-glow  go  dark  ? 

This  hour  to  sing  —  but  never  have —  hearts 
ease! 
That  when  the  sorrowing  winds  fly  low,  and 

croon 

Outside  our  happy  windows  their  old  rune, 
Beautiful  Mother,  I  must  wake,  and  hark  ? 

Who  am  I  ?  Why  for  me  this  iron  Must  ? 

Burden  the  moon-white  ox  would  never  bear; 
Load  that  he  cannot  share, 


THE    FOUNDLING        33 

He,  thine  imperial  hostage  of  the  dust. 

Else  should  I  look  to  see  the  god's  surprise 

Flow  from  his  great  unscornful,  lovely  eyes  — 

The  ox  thou  gavest  to  partake  my  care. 

Yea,  all  they  bear  their  yoke  of  sun-filled  hours. 
I,  lord  at  noon,  at  nightfall  no  more  free, 
Take  on  more  heavily 
The  yoke  of  hid,  intolerable  Powers. 

—  Then  pushes  here,  in  my  forgetful  hand, 
This  near  one's  breathless  plea  to  understand. 
Starward  I  look ;  he,  even  so,  at  me  ! 

And  she  who  shines  within  my  house,  my  sight 
Of  the  heart's  eyes,  my  hearth-glow,  and 

my  rain, 

My  singing's  one  refrain  — 
Are  there  for  her  no  tidings  from  the  height? 
For  her,  my  solace,  likewise  lost  and  far, 
Islanded  with  me  here,  on  this  lone  star 
Washed  by  the  ceaseless  tides  of  dark  and 
light. 

What  shall  it  profit,  that  I  built  for  her 
A  little  wayside  shelter  from  the  stark 
Sky  that  we  hear,  and  mark  ? 


34     THE    SINGING    MAN 

Lo,  in  her  eyes  all  dreams  that  ever  were ! 
And  cheek-to-cheek  with  me  she  shares  the 

quest, 

Her  heart,  as  mine  for  her,  sole  tented  rest 
From  light  to  light  of  day  ;  from  dark  — 
till  Dark. 

Yea,  but  for  her,  how  should  I  greatly  care 
Whither  and  whence?  But  that  the  dark 

should  blast 

Our  bright !  To  hold  her  fast,  — 
Yet  feel  this  dread  creep  gray  along  the  air. 
To  know  I  cannot  hold  her  so  my  own, 
But  under  surge  of  joy,  the  surges  moan 
That  threaten  us  with  parting  at  the  last ! 

Beautiful  Mother,  I  am  not  thy  son. 

I  know  from  echoes  far  behind  the  sky. 
I  know;  I  know  not  why. 
Even  from  thy  golden,  wide  oblivion : 
Thy  careless  leave  to  help  thy  harvesting, 
Thy  leave  to  work  a  little,  live,  and  sing ; 
Thy  leave  to  suffer  —  yea,  to  sing  and  die, 
Beautiful  Mother  !  .  .  . 

Ah,  Whose  child  am  I  ? 


Love  sang  to  me.  And  I  went  down  the  stair, 
And  out  into  the  darkness  and  the  dew ; 
And  bowed  myself  unto  the  little  grass, 
And  the  blind  herbs,  and  the  unshapen  dust 
Of  earth  without  a  face.  So  let  me  be. 

For  as  I  hear,  the  singing  makes  of  me 
My  own  desire,  and  momently  I  grow. 
Tea,  all  the  while  with  hands  of  melody, 
The  singing  makes  me,  out  of  what  I  was, 
Even  as  a  potter  shaping  Eden  clay. 

Ever  Love  sings,  and  saith  in  words  that  sing, 
'  Beloved,  thus  art  thou ;  and  even  so 
Lovely  art  thou,  Beloved '!'  —  Even  so, 
As  the  Sea  weaves  her  path  before  the  light, 
I  hear,  I  hear,  and  I  am  glorified. 

Love  sang  to  me,  and  I  am  glorified 
Because  of  some  commandment  in  the  stars. 
And  I  shall  grow  in  favour  and  in  shining, 
Till  at  the  last  I  am  all-beautiful; 
Beautiful,  for  the  day  Love  sings  no  more. 
+9 


THE    FEASTER 

OH,  who  will  hush  that  cry  outside  the 
doors, 
While  we  are  glad  within  ? 
Go  forth,  go  forth,  all  you  my  servitors ; 

(And  gather  close,  my  kin.) 
Go  out  to  her.  Tell  her  we  keep  a  feast, — 
Lost  Loveliness  who  will  not  sit  her  down 

Though  we  implore. 
It  is  her  silence  binds  me  unreleased, 
It  is  her  silence  that  no  flute  can  drown, 

It  is  her  moonlit  silence  at  the  door, 
Wide  as  the  whiteness,  but  a  fire  on  high 
That  frights  my  heart  with  an  immortal  Cry, 
Calling  me  evermore. 

Louder,  you  viols; — louder,  O  my  harp  ; 

Let  me  not  hear  her  voice ; 
And  drown  her  keener  silence,  silver-sharp, 

With  waves  of  golden  noise  ! 
For  she  is  wise  as  Eden,  even  mute, 

To  search  my  spirit  through  the  deep  and 
height 

Again,  again. 


38     THE    SINGING    MAN 

Outpierce  her  with  your  singing,  dawnlike  flute  ; 
And  you,  gloom  over,  viols  of  the  night 
With  colors  lost  in  umber,  —  with  sweet 

pain 

Of  richest  world's  desire,  —  prevail,  sing  down 
All  memory  with  pleading,  so  you  drown 
Her  merciless  refrain  ! 

Oh,  can  you  not  with  music,  nor  with  din, 

Save  me  the  stress  and  stir 
In  my  lone  spirit,  throned  among  my  kin, 

From  that  same  voice  of  her?  — 
The  never  ending  query  she  hath  had 
Only  to  wake  my  Soul,  and  only  then 

Wake  it  to  weep  ? 
With  c  Why?  '  and  'Art  tbou  happy  ?  Art  thou 

glad? 

And  hast  thou  fellowship  with  fellow -men  ? 
So,  through   my  mirth  and  underneath  my 

sleep  ; 

Her  voice,  —  abysmal  hunger  unfulfilled  ;  — 
The  calling,  calling,  never  to  be  stilled,  — 

Calling  of  deep  to  deep. 

But  I  have  that  shall  fill  this  wound  of  mine, 
Since  Loveliness  must  be;  — 


THE    FEASTER  39 

Since  Loveliness  must  save  us,  or  we  pine 

And  perish  utterly. 

All  that  the  years  have  left  us,  undismayed 
Of  age  or  death';  and  happier  fair  than  truth, 

—  When  truth  is  fair  ! 
Shapes  of  immortal  sweetness,  to  persuade 

Iron  and  fire  and  marble  to  their  youth ; 
Wild  graces  trapped  from  the  three  kingdoms' 

lair 
Of  wildest  Beauty ;  shadow  and  smile  and 

hush; 

—  Fleet  color,  of  a  daybreak,  of  a  blush, 
For  my  sad  soul  to  wear ! 

Let  April  fade  !  For  me,  unfading  bloom !  .  .  . 

The  little  fruitless  seed 
Deep  sown  of  fire  within  the  midmost  gloom, 

A  sterner  fire  to  feed  :  — 
The  rainbow,  frozen  in  a  lasting  dew ; 

Green-gazing  emerald,  fresh  as  grass  beneath 

The  placid  rose. 
Fair  pearl,  and  you,  fair  pearl,  and   you  and 

you, 
Rained   from   the    moon,  and  kissing   in   a 

wreath, 
As  moment  unto  eager  moment  goes  ! 


40     THE    SINGING    MAN 

Look  back    at    me,  you    sapphires   blue    and 

wise 

With  farthest  twilight,  blue  resplendent  eyes 
That  never  weep,  nor  close. 

O  house  me,  glories  !  Give  me  house  and  home 

Here  for  my  homelessness. 
Set  forth  for  me  the  wine,  the  honeycomb 

Whereto  desire  saith  c  Yes  ! ' 
O  Senses,  weave  me  from  all  lovely  dust 
Some  home-array,  some  fair  familiar  garb 

For  me,  exiled. 

Charm  me  some  rare  anointment  I  may  trust 
Against  her  query,  searching  like  a  barb 

The  dumbness  of  a  heart  unreconciled. 
Clothe  me  with  silver;  fold  me  from  dismay; 
Save  me  from  pity.   For  I  hear  her  say, 
<  Alas,  Alas,  poor  child  ! ' 

(  Alas,  Alas,  thou  lost  poor  child,  how  long? 

Why  wilt  thou  suffer  want  ? 
Why  must  I  hear  thy  weeping  through  thy  song, 

And  see  thine  eyes  grow  gaunt  ? 
Making  sad  feast  upon  the  crumbs  of  light 
Shed  long  ago  from  heavenly  highways  where 
Thy  brethren  are ! 


THE    FEASTER  41 

And  thy  heart  smoulders  in  thee,  to  be  bright, 
Thy  one  sole  refuge  from  thy  one  despair, 

Fraying  the  thwarted  body  with  a  scar. 
How  long,  before  thine  eyelids,  desolate, 
How  long  shall  this  thy  dark  dominion  wait 
For  thee,  belated  Star  ? ' 


Beloved,  if  the  Moon  could  weep, 
Or  if  the  Sun  could  see 

How  all  these  weltering  alleys  keep 
'Their  outcast  treasury! 

O  bitter,  bitter-sweet!  — 

Beauty  of  babyhood, — 

Earth's  wistful  uttermost  of  good 

Flung  out  upon  the  street ; 

Fouled,  even  as  the  highways  would, 

With  mirk  and  mire  and  bruise ; 

'The  cheek  more  petal-fine 

Than  rose  before  a  shrine! 

"Those  hands  like  star-fish  in  the  ooze, 

And  fingers  fain  to  cling 

To  any  stronger  thing  ! 

And  smiles ',  for  one  triumphal  Gift, 

Should  one  lean  down,  and  lift ! 

And  tendril  hair ;  —  O  in  such  wise, 

With  wild  lights  aureoled, 

The  morning-glories  twine  and  hold, 

In  some  far  paradise  ! 

Oh  well  and  deep,  the  foul  ways  keep 
Lost  treasure  hid  from  day! — 

Sun  may  not  see:  but  only  we, 
Who  look;  and  look  away. 


THE  GOLDEN  SHOES 

THE  winds  are  lashing  on  the  sea; 
The  roads  are  blind  with  storm. 
And  it 's  far  and  far  away  with  me ; 
So  bide  you  there,  stay  warm. 
It 's  forth  I  must,  and  forth  to-day  ; 

And  I  have  no  path  to  choose. 
The  highway  hill,  it  is  my  way  still.  — 
Give  me  my  golden  shoes. 

God  gave  them  me  on  that  first  day 

I  knew  that  I  was  young. 
And  I  looked  far  forth)  from  west  to  north ; 

And  I  heard  the  Songs  unsung. 

This  cloak  is  worn  too  threadbare  thin, 

But  ah,  how  weatherwise ! 
This  girdle  serves  to  bind  it  in  ; 

What  heed  of  wondering  eyes  ?  — 
And  yet  beside,  I  wear  one  pride 

-  Too  bright,  think  you,  to  use?  — 
That  I  must  wear,  and  still  keep  fair. — 

Give  here  my  golden  shoes. 


46     THE    SINGING    MAN 

God  gave  them  me,  on  that  first  day 

I  heard  the  Stars  all  chime. 
And  I  looked  forth  far,  from  road  to  star ; 

And  I  knew  it  was  far  to  climb. 

They  would  buy  me  house  and  hearth,  no  doubt, 

And  the  mirth  to  spend  and  share ; 
Could  I  sell  that  gift,  and  go  without, 

Or  wear  —  what  neighbors  wear. 
But  take  my  staff,  my  purse,  my  scrip  ; 

For  I  have  one  thing  to  choose. 
For  you,  —  Godspeed  !   May  you  soothe  your 
need. 

For  me,  my  golden  shoes ! 

He  gave  them  me,  that  far,  first  day 

When  I  heard  all  Songs  unsung. 
And  I  looked  far  forth,  from  west  to  north. 

God  saw  that  I  was  young! 


NOON  AT   P^STUM 

LORD  of  the  Sea,  we  sun-filled  creatures 
raise 
Our    hands    among     the    clamorous 

weeds,  — we  too. 

Lord  of  the  Sun,  and  of  the  upper  blue, 
Of  all  To-morrow,  and  all  yesterdays, 
Here,  where   the  thousand  broken  names  and 

ways 
Of  worship    are    but    shards    we   wandered 

through, 

There  is  no  gift  to  offer,  or  undo  ; 
There  is  no  prayer  left  in  us,  only  praise. 

Only  to  glory  in  this  glory  here, 

Through  the  dead  smoke   of  myriad  sacri 
fice  ;  — 
To  look  through  these  blue  spaces,  blind  and 

clear 

Even  as  the  seaward  gaze  of  Homer's  eyes; 
And  from  uplifted  heart,  and  cup,  to  pour 
Wine  to  the  Unknown  God.  —  We  ask  no  more. 


L 


VESTAL    FLAME 

I GHT,  light,  —  the  last: 
Till  the  night  be  done, 
Keep  the  watch  for  stars  and  sun,  and 
eyelids  over-cast. 


Once  there  seemed  a  sky, 
Brooding  over  men. 

Now  no  stars  have  come  again,  since  their  bright 
good-bye ! 

Once  my  dreams  were  wise. 
Now  I  nothing  know; 

Fasting  and  the  dark  have  so  put  out  my  heart's 
eyes. 

But  thy  golden  breath 
Burns  against  my  cheek. 

I  can  feel  and  love,  and  seek  all  the  rune  it 
saith. 

Do  not  thou  be  spent, 
Holy  thing  of  fire, — 

Only  hope  of  heart's  desire  dulled  with  wonder 
ment  ! 


VESTAL    FLAME          49 

While  there  bide  these  two 
Hands  to  bar  the  wind ; 

Though  such  fingers   chill   and  thinned,  shed 
no  roses  through. 

While  this  body  bends 
Only  for  thy  guard ; 

Like  a  tower,  to  ward  and  worship  all  the  light 
it  sends. 

It  is  not  for  fear 
Lest  there  ring  some  cry 

On  the   midnight,   (  Rise   and  come.    Lo,  the 
Bridegroom  near  !  ' 

It  is  not  for  pride, 
To  be  shining  fair 

In  a  wedding-garment  there,  lighting  home  the 
Bride. 

It  is  not  to  win 

Love,  for  hoarded  toil, 

From  those  poor,  with  their  spent  oil,  weeping, 

'  Light  us  in  ! '  — 

No ;  but  in  despite 
Of  all  vigils  set, 

Do  I  bind  me  to  thee  yet,  —  strangest  thing  of 
Light ! 


50      THE   SINGING   MAN 

Only,  all,  for  thee 
Whatsoe'er  thou  art, 

Smiling  through   the  blinded  heart,   things  it 
cannot  see. 

Very  Soul's  Desire, 

Take  my  life ;  and  live 

By  the  rapture  thine  doth  give,  ecstasy  of  fire ! 

Hold  thy  golden  breath  ! 
For  I  feel,  —  not  hear — 

Spent  with  joy  and  fear  to  lose   thee,  all  the 
song  it  saith. 

Light,  light,  my  own  : 
Do  not  thou  disown 

Thy  poor  keeper-of-the-light,  for  Light's  sake 
alone. 


The  dark  had  left  no  speech  save  hand-in-hand 
Between  us  two  the  while,  with  others  near. 
Mine  questioned  thine  with  (  Why  should  I  be 

here?' 
'  Yet  bide  thou  here,'  said  thine,  c  and  understand' 

And  mine  was  mute ;  but  strove  not  then  to  go  ; 
And  hid  itself,  and  murmured,  c  Do  not  hear 
'The  listening  in  my  heart ! y  Said  thine, c  My  Dear, 
I  will  not  hear  it,  ever.  But  I  know' 

Said  mine  to  thine :  'Let  be.  Now  will  I  go! — 
For  you  are  saying,  — you  who  do  not  speak, 
'This  hand-in-hand  is  one  day  cheek- to- cheek  !  ' 
And  said  thy  hand  around  me,  c  Even  so.' 

Then  mine  to  thine.  — 'Tea,  I  have  been  alone ; 
—  Tet  happy.  —  'This  is  strange.  'This  is  not  II 
You  hold  me,  but  you  can  not  tell  me  why' 
And  said  thy  hand  to  mine  again,  c  My  Own.' 


THE    PROPHET 

ALL  day  long  he  kept  the  sheep  :  — 
Far  and  early,  from  the  crowd, 
On  the  hills  from  steep  to  steep, 
Where  the  silence  cried  aloud  ; 
And  the  shadow  of  the  cloud 
Wrapt  him  in  a  noonday  sleep. 

Where  he  dipped  the  water's  cool, 
Filling  boyish  hands  from  thence, 

Something  breathed  across  the  pool 
Stir  of  sweet  enlightenments  ; 
And  he  drank,  with  thirsty  sense, 

Till  his  heart  was  brimmed  and  full. 

Still,  the  hovering  Voice  unshed, 

And  the  Vision  unbeheld, 
And  the  mute  sky  overhead, 

And  his  longing,  still  withheld  ! 

—  Even  when  the  two  tears  welled, 
Salt,  upon  that  lonely  bread. 

Vaguely  blessed  in  the  leaves, 
Dim-companioned  in  the  sun, 


54     THE    SINGING    MAN 

Eager  mornings,  wistful  eves. 

Very  hunger  drew  him  on ; 

And  To-morrow  ever  shone 
With  the  glow  the  sunset  weaves. 

Even  so,  to  that  young  heart, 

Words  and  hands,  and  Men  were  dear ; 
And  the  stir  of  lane  and  mart 

After  daylong  vigil  here. 

Sunset  called,  and  he  drew  near, 
Still  to  find  his  path  apart. 

When  the  Bell,  with  gentle  tongue, 
Called  the  herd-bells  home  again, 

Through  the  purple  shades  he  swung, 
Down  the  mountain,  through  the  glen  ; 
Towards  the  sound  of  fellow-men, — 

Even  from  the  light  that  clung. 

Dimly  too,  as  cloud  on  cloud, 

Came  that  silent  flock  of  his  : 
Thronging  whiteness,  in  a  crowd, 

After  homing  twos  and  threes; 

With  the  thronging  memories 
Of  all  white  things  dreamed  and  vowed. 


THE    PROPHET 

Through  the  fragrances,  alone, 
By  the  sudden-silent  brook, 

From  the  open  world  unknown, 
To  the  close  of  speech  and  book ; 
There  to  find  the  foreign  look 

In  the  faces  of  his  own. 

Sharing  was  beyond  his  skill ; 

Shyly  yet,  he  made  essay : 
Sought  to  dip,  and  share,  and  fill 

Heart's-desire,  from  day  to  day. 

But  their  eyes,  some  foreign  way, 
Looked  at  him ;  and  he  was  still. 

Last,  he  reached  his  arms  to  sleep, 
Where  the  Vision  waited,  dim, 

Still  beyond  some  deep-on-deep. 
And  the  darkness  folded  him, 
Eager  heart  and  weary  limb.  — 

All  day  long,  he  kept  the  sheep. 


55 


THE    LONG    LANE 

ALL  through   the   summer  night,  down 
the  long  lane  in  flower, 
The  moon-white  lane, 
All    through    the    summer  night,  —  dim   as   a 

shower, 

Glimmer  and  fade  the  Twain : 
Over  the  cricket  hosts,  throbbing  the  hour  by 

hour, 
Young  voices  bloom  and  wane. 

Down  the  long   lane  they  go,  and  past   one 

window,  pale 

With  visions  silver-blurred; 
Stirring   the  heart  that  waits,  —  the  eyes   that 

fail 

After  a  spring  deferred. 
Query,  and  hush,  and  Ah! — dim    through  a 

moon-lit  veil, 
The  same  one  word. 

Down  the  long  lane,  entwined  with  all  the  fra 
grance  there ; 
The  lane  in  flower  somehow 


THE    LONG    LANE          57 

With  youth,  and  plighted  hands,  and  star-strewn 

air, 

And  muted  c  Thee '  and  c  Thou  ' :  — 
All  the  wild  bloom  and   reach  of  dreams  that 

never  were, 
—  Never  to  be,  now. 

So,  in  the  throbbing  dark,  where  ebbs  the  old 

refrain, 

A  starved  heart  hears. 
And  silver-bright,  and  silver-blurred  again 

With  moonlight  and  with  tears. 
All  the  long  night  they  go,  down  the  long  sum 
mer  lane, 
The  long,  long  years. 


Ah  but)  Beloved,  men  may  do 

All  things  to  music ;  —  march,  and  die  ; 

And  wear  the  longest  vigil  through, 

.  .  .  And  say  good-by. 
All  things  to  music  !  —  A h,  but  where 
Peace  never  falls  upon  the  air ;  — 
'These  city-ways  of  dark  and  din 
Where  greed  has  shut  and  barred  them  in  ! 
And  thundering,  swart  against  the  sky, 
That  whirlwind,  —  never  to  go  by  — 

Of  tracks  and  wheels,  that  overhead 
Beat  back  the  senses  with  their  roar 
And  menace  of  undying  war,  — 

War  —  war  —  for  daily  bread  ! 

All  things  to  silence  !  Ah,  but  where 

Men  dwell  not,  but  must  make  a  lair ;  — 

And  Sorrow  may  not  sit  alone, 

Nor  Love  hear  music  of  its  own ; 

And  Thought  that  strives  to  breast  that  sea 

Must  struggle  even  for  memory. 

~D ay-long,  night-long,  —  besieging  din 

To  thrust  all  fain  the  deeper  in  !  — 

And  drown  the  flutter  of  first -breath  ; 

And  batter  at  the  doors  of  Death. 


70  lull  their  dearest :  —  watcb  their  dead ; 
While  the  long  thunders  overhead. 
Gather  and  break  for  ever  more  y 
Eternal  tides  —  eternal  War, 
War  —  war  —  Bread —  bread! 
+9 


ALISON'S   MOTHER  TO   THE 
BROOK 

BROOK,  of  the  listening  grass, 
Brook  of  the  sun-fleckt  wings, 
Brook  of  the  same  wild  way  and  flicker 
ing  spell ! 

Must  you  begone  ?  Will  you  forever  pass, 
After  so  many  years  and  dear  to  tell  ?  — 
Brook  of  all  hoverings  .  .  . 
Brook  that  I  kneel  above ; 
Brook  of  my  love. 

Ah,  but  I  have  a  charm  to  trouble  you ; 

A  spell  that  shall  subdue 

Your  all-escaping  heart,  unheedful  one 

And  unremembering ! 

Now,  when  I  make  my  prayer 

To  your  wild  brightness  there 

That  will  but  run  and  run, 

O  mindless  Water!  — 

Hark,  —  now  will  I  bring 

A  grace  as  wild,  —  my  little  yearling  daughter, 

My  Alison. 


62      THE    SINGING    MAN 

Heed  well  that  threat ; 

And  tremble  for  your  hill-born  liberty 

So  bright  to  see  !  — 

Your  shadow-dappled  way,  unthwarted  yet, 

And  the  high  hills  whence  all  your  dearness 

bubbled ;- 

You,  never  to  possess ! 

For  let  her  dip  but  once  —  O  fair  and  fleet, — 
Here  in  your  shallows,  yes, 
Here  in  your  silverness 
Her  two  blithe  feet,  - 
O   Brook   of  mine,   how  shall  your  heart  be 

troubled ! 

The  heart,  the  bright  unmothering  heart  of  you, 

That  never  knew.  — 

(O  never,  more  than  mine  of  long  ago. 

How  could  we  know  ?  — ) 

For  who  should  guess 

The  shock  and  smiting  of  that  perfectness  ?  — 

The  lily-thrust  of  those  ecstatic  feet 

Unpityingly  sweet?  — 

Sweet  beyond  all  the  blurred  blind  dreams  that 

grope 

The  upward  paths  of  hope  ? 
And  who  could  guess 


ALISON'S    MOTHER       63 

The  dulcet  holiness. 

The  lilt  and  gladness  of  those  jocund  feet, 

Unpityingly  sweet  ? 

Ah,  for  your  coolness  that  shall  change  and 

stir 

With  every  glee  of  her  !  — 
Under  the  fresh  amaze 
That  drips  and  glistens    from   her  wiles   and 

ways; 

When  the  endearing  air 
That  everywhere 

Must  twine  and  fold  and  follow  her,  shall  be 
Rippled  to  ring  on  ring  of  melody, — 
Music,  like  shadows  from  the  joy  of  her, 
Small  starry  Reveller  !  — 
When  from  her  triumphings, — 
All  frolic  wings  — 

There  soars  beyond  the  glories  of  the  height, 
The  laugh  of  her  delight ! 

And  it  shall  sound,  until 

Your  heart  stand  still ; 

Shaken  to  human  sight ; 

Struck  through  with  tears  and  light ; 

One  with  the  one  desire 

Unto  that  central  Fire 


64     THE    SINGING    MAN 

Of  Love  the  Sun,  whence  all  we  lighted  are 
Even  from  clod  to  star. 


And  all  your  glory, O  most  swift  and  sweet! 
And  all  your  exultation  only  this  ; 
To  be  the  lowly  and  forgotten  kiss 
Beneath  those  feet. 

You  that  must  ever  pass,  — 

You  of  the  same  wild  way,  — 

The  silver-bright  good-bye  without  a  look  ! 

You  that  would  never  stay, 

For  the  beseeching  grass  .  .  . 

Brook!  — 


Tou,  Four  Walls, 

Wall  not  in  my  heart ! 
When  the  lovely  night-time  falls 

All  so  welcomely, 
Blinding,  sweet  beartb-fire, 
Light  of  heart's  desire. 

Blind  not,  blind  not  me  ! 
Unto  them  that  weep  apart ,  — 
While  you  glow,  within, 

Wreckt,  despairing  kin,  — 
Dark  with  misery : 
—  Do  not  blind  my  heart ! 

Tou,  close  Heart! 

Never  bide  from  mine 

Worlds  that  I  divine 
through  thy  human  dearness. 
O  beloved  Nearness, 

Hallow  all  I  understand 

With  thy  hand-in-hand;  — 
All  the  lights  I  seek, 
With  thy  cheek-to-cheek ; 

All  the  loveliness  I  loved  apart* 

Tou,  heart '  s  Home  !  — 
Wall  not  in  my  heart. 


CANTICLE   OF   THE  BABE 


OVER  the  broken  world,  the  dark  gone 
by, 
Horror  of  outcast  darkness  torn  with 

wars; 

And  timeless  agony 

Of  the  white  fire,  heaped  high  by  blinded  Stars, 
Unfaltering,  unaghast ;  — 
Out  of  the  midmost  Fire 
At  last,  —  at  last,  — 
A  Cry  !  ... 

O  darkness'  one  desire,  — 
O  darkness,  have  you  heard  ?  — 
Black  Chaos,  blindly  striving  towards  the  Word  ? 
—  The  Cry ! 

Behold  thy  conqueror,  Death  ! 

Behold,  behold  from  whom 

It  flutters  forth,  that  triumph  of  First-Breath, 

Victorious  one  that  can  but  breathe  and  cling, — 

This  pulsing  flower,  —  this  weaker  than  awing, 

Halcyon  thing  !  — 

Cradled  above  unfathomable  doom. 


68     THE    SINGING    MAN 


II 

Under  my  feet,  O  Death, 
Under  my  trembling  feet ! 
Back,  through  the  gates  of  hell,  now  give  me 

way. 

I  come.  —  I  bring  new  Breath  ! 
Over  the  trampled  shards  of  mine  own  clay, 
That  smoulder  still,  and  burn, 
Lo,  I  return  ! 

Hail,  singing  Light  that  floats 
Pulsing  with  chorused  motes  :  — 
Hail  to  thee,  Sun,  that  lookest  on  all  lands ! 
And  take  thou  from  my  weak  undying  hands, 
A  precious  thing,  unblemished,  undefiled  :  — 
Here,  on  my  heart  uplift, 
Behold  the  Gift,— 
Thy  glory  and  my  glory,  and  my  child ! 

Ill 

(And  our  eyes  were  opened ;  eyes  that  had  been 
bolden. 

And  I  saw  the  world^  and  the  fruits  thereof. 
And  I  saw  their  glories ',  scarlet-stained  and  golden , 

All  a  crumbled  dust  beneath  the  feet  of  Love. 


CANTICLE   OF  THE   BABE   69 

And  I  saw   their  dreams,  all  of  nothing 

worth  ; 

But  a  path  for  Love,  for  Him  to  walk  above, 
And  I  saw  new  heaven,  and  new  earth.) 


IV 

The  grass  is  full  of  murmurs ; 
The  sky  is  full  of  wings  ; 

The  earth  is  full  of  breath. 

With  voices,  choir  on  choir 

With  tongues  of  fire, 
They  sing  how  Life  out-sings  — 

Out-numbers  Death. 


Who  are  these  that  fly : 

As  doves,  and  as  doves  to  the  windows  ? 

Doves,  like  hovering  dreams  round  Love  that 

slumbereth ; 

Silvering  clouds  blown  by, 
Doves  and  doves  to  the  windows,  — 
Warm  through  the  radiant  sky  their  wings  beat 

breath. 

They  are  the  world's  new-born  : 
Doves,  doves  to  the  windows  ! 


jo     THE    SINGING    MAN 

Lighting,  as  flakes  of  snow  ; 

Lighting,  as  flakes  of  flame  ; 

Some  to  the  fair  sown  furrows ; 

Some  to  the  huts  and  burrows 

Choked  of  the  mire  and  thorn,  — 

Deep  in  the  city's  shame. 

Wind-scattered  wreaths  they  go, 

Doves,  and  doves,  to  the  windows; 

Some  for  worshipping  arms,  to  shelter  and  fold, 

and  shrine  ; 

Some  to  be  torn  and  trodden, 
Withered  and  waste,  and  sodden ; 
Pitiful,  sacred  leaves  from  Life's  dishonored  vine. 


VI 


0  Vine  of  Life,  that  in  these  reaching  fingers, 
Urges  a  sunward  way  ! 

Hold  here  and  climb,  and  halt  not,  that  there 

lingers 

So  far  outstripped,  my  halting,  wistful  clay. 
Make    here    thy    foothold    of    my    rapturous 

heart,  — 

Yea,  though  the  tendrils  start 
To  hold  and  twine ! 

1  am  the  heart  that  nursed 


CANTICLE   OF  THE   BABE    ^i 

Thy  sunward  thirst.  - 

A  little  while,  a  little  while,  O  Vine, 

My  own  and  never  mine, 

Feed  thy  sweet  roots  with  me 

Abundantly. 

O  wonder-wildness  of  the  pushing  Bud 

With  hunger  at  the  flood, 

Climb  on,  and  seek,  and  spurn. 

Let  my  dull  spirit  learn 

To  follow  with  its  longing,  as  it  may, 

While  thou  seek  higher  day. — 

But  thou,  the  reach  of  my  own  heart's  desire, 

Be  free  as  fire ! 

Still  climb  and  cling ;  and  so 

Outstrip,  —  outgrow. 

O  Vine  of  Life,  my  own  and  not  my  own, 
So  far  am  I  outgrown  ! 
High  as  I  may,  I  lift  thee,  Soul's  Desire. 
—  Lift  thou  me  higher. 


And  thou,  Wayfaring  Woman,  whom  I  meet 

On  all  the  highways, — every  brimming  street, 

Lady  Demeter,  is  it  thou,  grown  gaunt 

With  work  and  want  ? 

At  last,  and  with  what  shamed  and  stricken  eyes, 

I  see  through  thy  disguise 

Of  drudge  and  Exile,  —  even  the  holy  boon 

That  silvers  yonder  in  the  Harvest-moon ;  — 

tfhat  dimly  underglows 

The  furrows  of  thy  worn  immortal  face, 

With  mother-grace. 

O  Queen  and  Burden-bearer,  what  of  those 

To  whom  thou  gavest  the  lily  and  the  rose 

Of  thy  far  youth?  .  .  .  For  whom, 

Out  of  the  wondrous  loom 

Of  thine  enduring  body,  thou  didst  make 

Garments  of  beauty,  cunningly  adorned, 

But  only  for  Death's  sake  ! 

Largess  of  life,  but  to  lie  waste  and  scorned.  — 

Could  not  such  cost  of  fain, 

Nor  daily  utmost  of  thy  toil  prevail?  — 

But  they  must  fade,  and  pale, 

And  wither  from  thy  desolated  throne?  — 


And  still  no  Summer  give  thee  back  again 
Thine  own? 

Lady  of  Sorrows,  —  Mother,  —  Drudge  august, 
Behold  me  in  the  dust. 


GLADNESS 

UNTO  my  Gladness  then  I  cried: 
'  I  will  not  be  denied ! 
Answer  me  now ;  and  tell  me  why 
Thou  dost  not  fall,  as  a  broken  star 
Out  of  the  Dark  where  such  things  are, 

And  where  such  bright  things  die. 
How  canst  thou,  with  thy  fountain  dance 
Shatter  clear  sight  with  radiance  ?  — 
How  canst  thou  reach  and  soar,  and  fling, 
Over  my  heart's  dark  shuddering, 
Unearthly  lights  on  everything  ? 
What  dost  thou  see  ?   What  dost  thou  know  ?' 
My  Gladness  said  to  me,  bowed  below, 
c  Gladness  I  am  :  created  so/ 

'  And  dare'st  thou,  in  my  mortal  veins 
Sing,  with  the  Spring's  descending  rains  ? 
While  in  this  hour,  and  momently, 
Forth  of  myself  I  look,  and  see 
Torn  treasure  of  my  heart's  Desire ; 
And  human  glories  in  the  mire, 


7  6     THE    SINGING    MAN 

That  should  make  glad  some  paradise  !  — 
The  childhood  strewn  in  foulest  place, 
The  girlhood,  plundered  of  its  grace  ; 
The  eyelids  shut  upon  spent  eyes 
That  never  looked  upon  thy  face ! 
Answer  me,  thou,  if  answer  be  ! ' 

My  Gladness  said  to  me : 
'  Weep  if  thou  wilt;  yea,  weep,  and  doubt. 
I  may  not  let  the  Sun  go  out/ 

Then  to  my  Gladness  still  I  cried : 

'  And  how  canst  thou  abide  ?  — 
Here,  where  my  listening  heart  must  hark 
These  sorrows  rising  from  the  Dark 
Where  still  they  starve,  and  strive  and  die, 
Who  bear  each  heaviest  penalty 
Of  humanhood  ;  —  nor  grasp,  nor  guess, 
The  garment's  hem  of  happiness  !  — 
The  spear-wound  throbbing  in  my  song, 
It  throbs  more  bitterly  than  wrong, — 
It  burns  more  wildly  than  despair, — 
The  will  to  share, 
The  will  to  share  ! 
Little  I  knew,  —  the  blind-fold  I,  — 


GLADNESS  77 

Joy  would  become  like  agony,  — 
Like  arrows  of  the  Sun  in  me  ! 

I  hold  thee  here.  I  have  thee,  now, — 
And  I  am  human.  But  what  art  thou  ! ' 

My  Gladness  answered  me  : 
c  Wayfarer,  wilt  thou  understand?  — 
Follow  me  on.  And  keep  my  hand/ 


THE   NIGHTINGALE   UNHEARD 


THE    NIGHTINGALE    UNHEARD 

YES,  Nightingale,  through  all  the  sum 
mer-time 
We  followed  on,  from  moon  to  golden 

moon ; 

From  where  Salerno  day-dreams  in  the  noon, 
And  the  far  rose  of  Paestum  once  did  climb. 
All  the  white  way  beside  the  girdling  blue, 
Through  sun-shrill  vines  and  campanile  chime, 
We  listened  ;  —  from  the  old  year  to  the  new. 
Brown  bird,  and  where  were  you  ? 

You,  that  Ravello  lured  not,  throned  on  high 
And  filled  with  singing  out  of  sun-burned 

throats  ! 

Nor  yet  Minore  of  the  flame-sailed  boats  ; 
Nor  yet —  of  all  bird-song  should  glorify  — 

Assisi,  Little  Portion  of  the  blest, 
Assisi,  in  the  bosom  of  the  sky, 

Where  God's  own  singer  thatched  his  sun 
ward  nest; 
That  little,  heavenliest ! 


82     THE    SINGING    MAN 

And  north  and  north,  to  where  the  hedge-rows 

are, 
That   beckon  with   white   looks   an  endless 

way; 
Where,  through   the  fair  wet  silverness  of 

May, 
A  lamb  shines  out  as  sudden  as  a  star, 

Among  the  cloudy   sheep ;  and  green,  and 

pale, 

The  may-trees  reach  and  glimmer,  near  or  far, 
And  the  red  may-trees  wear  a  shining  veil. 
—  And  still,  no  nightingale  ! 

The  one  vain  longing,  —  through  all  journey- 
ings, 
The  one  :  in  every  hushed  and  hearkening 

spot,  — 
All  the  soft-swarming  dark  where  you  were 

not, 
Still  longed  for !  Yes,  for  sake  of  dreams  and 

wings, 

And  wonders,  that  your  own  must  ever  make 
To  bower  you  close,  with  all  hearts'  treasurings  ; 
And  for  that  speech  toward  which  all  hearts 
do  ache;  — 

Even  for  Music's  sake. 


NIGHTINGALE   UNHEARD   83 

But  most,  his  music  whose  beloved  name 
Forever  writ  in  water  of  bright  tears, 
Wins  to  one  grave-side  even  the  Roman  years, 

That  kindle  there  the  hallowed  April  flame 
Of  comfort-breathing  violets.   By  that  shrine 

Of  Youth,  Love,  Death,  forevermore  the  same, 
Violets  still !  —  When  falls,  to  leave  no  sign, 
The  arch  of  Constantine. 

Most  for  his  sake  we  dreamed.  Tho'  not  as  he, 
From  that  lone  spirit,  brimmed  with  human 

woe, 

Your  song  once  shook  to  surging  overflow. 
How  was  it,  sovran  dweller  of  the  tree, 

His  cry,  still  throbbing  in  the  flooded  shell 
Of  silence  with  remembered  melody, 

Could  draw  from  you  no  answer  to  the  spell  ? 
-O  Voice,  O  Philomel? 

Long  time  we  wondered   (and  we  knew  not 

why) :  — 
Nor  dream,  nor  prayer,  of  wayside  gladness 

born, 

Nor  vineyards  waiting,  nor  reproachful  thorn, 
Nor  yet  the  nested  hill-towns  set  so  high 
All  the  white  way  beside  the  girdling  blue,  — 


84     THE    SINGING    MAN 

Nor  olives,  gray  against  a  golden  sky, 

Could  serve  to  wake  that  rapturous  voice  of 
you  ! 

But  the  wise  silence  knew. 

O  Nightingale  unheard!  —  Unheard  alone, 
Throughout  that  woven  music  of  the  days 
From  the  faint  sea-rim  to  the  market-place, 

And  ring  of  hammers  on  cathedral  stone  !  — 
So  be  it,  better  so:  that  there  should  fail 

For  sun-filled  ones,  one  blessed  thing  unknown. 
To  them,  be  hid  forever,  —  and  all  hail ! 
Sing  never,  Nightingale. 

Sing,  for  the  others  !  Sing;  to  some  pale  cheek 
Against  the  window,  like  a  starving  flower. 
Loose,  with  your  singing,  one  poor  pilgrim 

hour 

Of  journey,  with  some  Heart's  Desire  to  seek. 
Loose,  with  your  singing,  captives  such  as 

these 
In  misery  and  iron,  hearts  too  meek, 

For  voyage  —  voyage  over  dreamful  seas 
To  lost  Hesperides. 

Sing  not  for  free-men.  Ah,  but  sing  for  whom 
The  walls  shut  in ;  and  even  as   eyes  that 
fade, 


NIGHTINGALE   UNHEARD   85 

The    windows    take    no    heed   of  light   nor 

shade, — 
The  leaves  are  lost  in  mutterings  of  the  loom. 

Sing  near !  So  in  that  golden  overflowing 
They  may  forget  their  wasted  human  bloom; 
Pay  the  devouring  days  their  all,  unknow 
ing,— 

Reck  not  of  life's  bright  going  ! 

Sing  not  for  lovers,  side  by  side  that  hark ; 
Nor  unto  parted  lovers,  save  they  be 
Parted  indeed  by  more  than  makes  the  Sea. 
Where  never  hope  shall  meet  —  like  mounting 

lark  — 

Far  Joy's  uprising;  and  no  memories 
Abide  to  star  the  music-haunted  dark : 

To  them  that  sit  in  darkness,  such  as  these, 
Pour  down,  pour  down  heart's-ease. 

Not  in  kings'  gardens.   No;  but  where  there 

haunt 
The    world's    forgotten,   both   of  men   and 

birds ; 

The  alleys  of  no  hope  and  of  no  words, 
The  hidings  where  men  reap  not,  though  they 

plant; 


86     THE    SINGING    MAN 

But  toil  and  thirst  —  so  dying  and  so  born  ;  — 
And  toil  and  thirst  to  gather  to  their  want, 
From  the  lean  waste,  beyond  the  daylight's 
scorn, 

-To  gather  grapes  of  thorn! 

And  for  those  two,  your  pilgrims  without  tears, 
Who  prayed  a  largess  where  there  was  no 

dearth, 

Forgive  it  to  their  human-happy  ears : 
Forgive  it  them,  brown  music  of  the  Earth, 
Unknowing,  —  though  the  wiser  silence  knew ! 
Forgive  it  to  the  music  of  the  spheres 

That  while  they  walked  together  so,  the  Two 
Together, —  heard  not  you. 


ENVOI 

Beloved,  till  the  day  break. 
Leave  wide  the  little  door ; 

And  bless,  to  lack  and  longing, 
Our  brimming  more-and-more. 

Is  love  a  scanted  -portion, 

That  we  should  hoard  thereof? 
Oh,  call  unto  the  deserts, 

Beloved  and  my  Love  ! 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


UNIVERSITY   OF   CAM  FORM  A    LIBRARY 


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t'c.o   b  is  10 

OCT  22  1915 
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JMi  16  1313 
1918 

MAY  11 1918 
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^261920 
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30m-6,'14 


